3,470 Miles
by Ruby Casablanca
Summary: There are 3,470 miles between London and New York. Peter and MJ use that time to catch their breath and some much-needed rest. Post-FFH.


A/N: I keep having soft thoughts about Peter Parker cuddling with MJ as a way of coping with everything that happened in Far From Home (not THAT scene at the end though - I still haven't processed THAT scene yet). So here is this angsty, soft little drabble featuring two young kids who like each other supporting each other because they are so fricking cute!

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3,470 Miles

Everyone was too shaken up from the London attack to question how Peter ended up back on the class flight to New York. Peter had claimed to be in so many places at so many times that no one had bothered to keep proper track of him. Between both teachers' screaming and accusations of witchcraft, Peter was able to slip silently onboard, hoodie up to hide his battle wounds and his hand laced tightly with MJ's. No one said a word when he took his seat - a window this time - with MJ next to him.

Peter's hands shook, the one in MJ's and the one that gripped Tony Stark's glasses so tightly MJ was surprised they didn't crack. They hadn't stopped shaking since he got on the plane. If MJ had to guess, they probably haven't stopped shaking since the bridge. It wasn't like MJ's own hands were steady either. She could squeeze Peter's fingers tight enough to cut off circulation and pretend it was to support him, when she knew that if she let go she just might shake apart.

They sat in silence as the plane filled to capacity. What was there to say? Other than the obvious.

_I'm glad you're alive. I'm glad we're both alive. I'm not sure how we made it, I'm not sure we're okay, but we're here._

By the time the plane took off, most people already had their airpods in, their screens alive with movies and music. Not MJ. She had her eyes trained on the digital map. There were 3,470 miles between London and New York, and MJ counted down every one, watching the tiny airplane icon as it inched infinitesimally further across the blue.

When the stewardess came over and asked them if they needed anything, Peter shook his head and smiled. Even with scabs on his knuckles and little cuts across his forehead and bruises around his red-rimmed eyes, Peter smiled.

_How does he keep smiling? How can he act like everything is fine? _

Everything was not fine. Deep down, MJ knew that. Peter was only holding himself together for everyone else's sake, and those webs were drawn tight, close to snapping. Because Peter Parker wasn't the one who charged head-first into battle with a genius-level sociopath with an army of drones. Spiderman did that, and to the rest of the world, those were two very different people.

MJ was not the rest of the world. MJ was a friend - more than friend? Girlfriend? - of Spiderman. MJ could see that Peter was running on adrenaline, moments away from collapsing. So MJ watched, ready to catch him. Because it was bound to happen. It was only a matter of when.

There were a million questions burning on the tip of her tongue.

_What's it like being a superhero? Does being an Avenger come with any perks? How many muscles are hidden underneath that sweatshirt? How many scars? What was the scariest part of outer space? Do you remember how it felt when you turned to dust? What's it like watching someone you love die?_

She kept them to herself. She bit down on her tongue and returned her attention to the map.

3,470 miles.

Somewhere around mile five hundred MJ's hand got a cramp. She flexed it, but instead of returning it to a waffled position on the metal armrest, her traitorous fingers found their way into Peter's hair.

It was an impulse, one that flittered briefly thought MJ's chaotic mind. But she could only suppress so many things at once, and she was already using up all her focus on staying quiet.

Peter did not protest, so MJ took that as a cue to keep going. His hair felt nice between her fingers: short and soft with a little bit of curl. There was a bump on his scalp that was warm and throbbing, and she was careful to be gentle whenever she passed over it. The repetitive motion was soothing. MJ actually felt the tension bleed out of Peter - not literally. There had been far too much of that already - but soon enough he started to lean her way, his body curving towards hers like a flower does to the sun.

And then, all at once, his head fell heavy against her shoulder.

Peter startled, like he was not aware of what his body was doing. A flush crept up his cheeks, his eyes wide, and he pulled away quickly to angle himself towards the window. MJ stopped him in his tracks with a squeeze to his hand. She didn't mind being his pillow. Actually it was kind of nice.

With a bit more coaxing, Peter laid his head back against her shoulder. He was tense again, but the resumed hair playing took care of that soon enough. MJ really should not have liked that as much as she did, but she could not stop herself from touching Peter's hair just as Peter could not stop himself from cuddling her shoulder.

Peter was asleep within minutes. Even though he was only sixteen, his face looked younger when he slept. Less troubled save for the worry line creased through his brow. MJ wondered if he dreamed about it - the dark and the cold and the void of space. She wondered if it was better than dreaming about the violence of battle and the taste of blood. She wondered if he would add this trip to his list of nightmares.

But the miles kept passing, the icon kept moving steadily across the blue, and Peter did not wake screaming.

And somewhere around mile one thousand, feeling exhausted and warm and _safe_ under Peter's weight, MJ fell asleep too.


End file.
